The Daughter of the Consulting Detective
by Meilodi
Summary: My name is Sophia Holmes, and I'm the daughter of the world's only consulting detective, and this is my story, well I say my story, it's actually my father me, and John Watson's. Teenage daughter of Sherlock. Mild swearing.
1. Chapter 1

**The Daughter of the Consulting Detective**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything.**

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**Chapter 1**

The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, it's the best sound I've heard all day long. I shouldered my bag and strode out the classroom, I managed to make it to the school gate before someone stops me to "socialize."

"Hey, Soph!"

I turned but didn't answer, it's Cassie, she likes me for some weird reason, she thinks that my rudeness and cleverness is "sexy" and that my coldness and general disinterest in social situations "mysterious."

"Do you wanna go to that party today?"

"Sorry, I've got things to do. I just moved, remember?" I smiled apologetically, a skill I had perfected long ago, she smiled back and walked away, no doubt looking for another prey to go to the party with.

I breathed out a sign of relief and continued walking, but was stopped yet again.

"Sophia!" I turned to look at the guy who dares disturb me and immediately rolled my eyes. A group of boys were standing around another boy, punching at him playfully and nudging at me, the boy was called Matt. It was common knowledge in the school that he fancies me. I sent them a cold glare and walked away, hearing the ohh's and ahh's behind me. I shrugged off my blazer as I crossed over school grounds. My uncle, otherwise known as the British Government, had insisted I go to a fancy private school instead of a public one. My father did not see any disadvantages to the solution, and I honestly could not care less, so I'm studying the poshest school in London on a "scholarship."

I opened the wooden door with the brass numbers "221B" and bounded up the stairs, My father was standing around, tossing some folders into a box and slamming the swiss army knife into a pile of envelopes, that was quite normal, what struck me as abnormal is another man standing beside him, peering curiously at the skull. He turned around when he heard me come in, he was a member of the army with a psychosomatic limp.

"Oh, may I introduce my daughter, Sophia Holmes." Dad says, gesturing to me absentmindedly,

"John Watson." The man says, and shook my hand, "Pleasure to meet you."

"Pleasure's mine." I said, smiling at him, "Umm, could you excuse me for a second, I want a word with my father."

I pulled Dad away without waiting for a reply and we stood on the porch,

"Who is this John Watson, are you seriously thinking about your teenage daughter sharing a flat with an ex-soldier?" I hissed at him,

"He's an ex-army doctor," He said calmly, "And you know we won't be able to afford the flat on our own."

I glared at him, and he looked back at me passively. See, I take after my father on quite a lot of things, sarcasm, wit, deduction skills amongst others, I'm just not as good at deduction skills than him, the one thing I'm better at than him is people skills. I happen to know when I've offended someone, I just generally don't care.

Just then, Mrs. Hudson entered the flat and he followed her in, so naturally I had to follow him in. Dr. Watson was still examining the skull with interest,

"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."  
I snorted into my tea that Mrs. Hudson had brought up, my father, Sherlock Holmes, a boyfriend? Hasn't Mrs. Hudson known Dad for long enough to know that the number of acquaintances he has could be counted with one hand.

"Of course we'll be needing two." Dr. Watson says, frowning, that poor man,

"Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts round here." Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you'll never give up, will you? "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones."

Dr. Watson glances at Dad expectantly, probably waiting for him to deny their relationship, but he did not seem to notice, I happen to know that he does not care.

"So, Dr. Watson?" I decided to ease the awkwardness, or at least attempt to do so,

"John, please." He said, turning to me, I raised my eyebrows, what kind of man wants to be called John by a 16-year-old? To be honest, I only called him Dr. Watson because it's his first day, I start to call people by their first names by the second day, I did not like to be treated like a child.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" I inquired.

"Um... Afghanistan." He answered, a little bewildered, "Your father asked the same question."

"Oh, did he now?" I pretended to be surprised, "What do you think of the flat?"

"Oh, it's quite nice. Quite nice." He mused over it, then turned to Dad, "I looked you up on the internet last night."

Oh, I've got to hear this.

"Anything interesting?" Dad turned around to face him,

"Found your website, The Science of Deduction."

"What did you think?" He said, smiling proudly, which is one of the smiles he is capable of, the others being fake  
smiles, smug smiles, menacing smiles, there's-been-a-murder smile, and the occasional happiness smiles.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb." He said doubtfully, Dad looks a little hurt,

"Yeah. And we can read your military career from your face and your leg." I said, stepping in. If he was going to be like the other guys and insult my father, he has to come through me first.

Dad smiled, "And I can see your brother's drinking habits from your mobile phone."

"How?" John turned to me, then looked back to Dad. He smiled mysteriously and turned away, John turned to me then, expecting an explanation, but I looked in my tea mug and took a sip.

"What about those suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same." Mrs. Hudson walked in, clutching the newspaper. I took it from her and glanced at it,

"Four." Dad says, looking out the window, "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

"A fourth?" I inquired, and the answer came through the door. D.I. Lestrade, our dear old friend, came into the living room.

"Hey Sophia," He acknowledged me, he absolutely adores me for unfathomable reasons.

"Where?" Dad asked,

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different.'

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?" I looked up, and I knew Dad's next question,

"Who's on forensics?" Ding ding ding, right answer.

"Anderson."

"Anderson won't work with me." Dad grimaced, the two absolutely loathed each other.

"I need an assistant."

"You have Sophia." Lestrade pointed out.

Excuse me, I am not my father's assistant!

"I am not yours or anyone's assistant." I said bluntly.

"Will you come?" Lestrade chose to ignore me, a wise choice, really.

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind." I could almost hear the excitement bubbling in Dad's body, and mine also.

"Thank you." Lestrade signed in relief, and walked out the door.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" Dad says, jumping up happily like a little kid. I knew that I was the picture of calmness, well I wasn't, I must've a huge grin across my face, but I was equally as excited as my Dad.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food, come on, Sophia!"

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up! Sophia, Hurry!" He said rapidly and dashed out the door, I followed, pulling on my coat and throwing the newspaper on the table, as well as setting down my mug.

Drat, I haven't changed out of my uniform yet.

Dad stopped in front of the door abruptly when the sound of John's angry voice echoed down to the front door,

"Damn my leg!"

I snapped my head and looked up, Dad seems to think to himself for a moment and went back upstairs. A moment later, Dad came back downstairs, but this time with John.  
I raised an eyebrow at Dad, but he ignored me and hailed a cab.

"Okay, you've got questions." I said, unable to continue watching John glance nervously at Dad, who was staring intently on his phone, I turned slightly so I was facing John,

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene." I said simply, secretly enjoying John's uncomfortableness, "Next."

"Okay, who are you? What do you do?" John asked, then reconsidered, "What does your father do and who is your father?"

"What do you think?" Dad had finally lowered his phone, and looked in at our conversation with interest,

"I'd say private detective..." John said hesitantly,

"But?" I prompted.

"The police don't go to private detectives."

"He is a consulting detective, only one in the world. He invented the job." I said, "And in answer to your previous question, I am the daughter of the world's only consulting detective."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I am this man's daughter." I said, hiding a smile.

"No, not that." John clarified, he could tell that I was teasing him, though, "What does a consulting detective mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is usually the case, they come to Dad and I."

"The police don't consult amateurs."

Dad threw him one of his icy looks.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw." Dad said, then looked at me pointedly.

"Let me guess... Haircut?" I eyed John carefully, "And...the posture?"

"Yes, and when you entered the lab, you said 'bit different from my day,' so trained at Barts, Army doctor, obviously. Your face is tanned, but not above the wrist. You've been abroad by not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like yo've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq."

Dad's speech has the same affect on everyone, doubt, a very very brief amazement, then anger.

"You said I had a therapist." Here we are, doubt.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist." I pointed out.

"Then there's your brother."

"Hmm?"

"Your phone." Dad held out his hand and John handed him his phone. Dad inspected it then handed it to me, "Care to make a deduction, Sophia?"

"With pleasure." I took the phone and flipped it over, I inspected the phone carefully, reading between the lines.

"Well, it's expensive, you're looking for a flatshare, won't waste your money, so it's a gift." I paused and looked at John, who was eyeing the phone in my hand curiously, "Scratches. A lot of scratches. The man beside me would not treat his one luxury item like this, so it's a hand-me-down. Then the engraving."

"Harry Watson, from Clara, xxx." John recited.

"Harry Watson, a family member who's given you his old phone. Bit too young a phone for a father, could be a cousin, but you can't find a place to live, so unlikely you've got an extended family, at least not one close enough to give you his phone, so brother. Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses, romantic attachment, expensive phone so wife, not girlfriend. The model is only six months old, marriage in trouble then. If she'd left him, he would've kept it, sentiments, but he wanted to get rid of it, he left her." I took a breath, and looked up to see John's shock face and Dad's proud smile, "He gave the phone to you, he wants to keep in touch. You're looking for a place to live, but you're not going to your brother, you've got problems with him. Probably you liked his wife?"

"No, you don't like his drinking." Dad said, and took the phone from my hands.

"The drinking?" John asked, "How can you know that?"

"Power connection, tiny scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes in to plug it in to charge but his hands were shaking..."

"Never see a sober man's phone with them, never see a drunk's without them." I continued. Dad smirked and gave John his phone back.

"You were right." I said, smirking,

"I was right, right about what?" There, brief amazement.

"The police don't consult amateurs."

Both me and Dad tensed as we waited for the next reaction, anger.

"That...was amazing." John said. We both froze, Dad turned his head around and looked at John, I looked at the two of them.

"Do you think so?" Dad asked,

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary." I could feel a huge grin spreading across my face, and I looked at Dad.

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off!" I said, and laughed. John joined in briefly, Dad grinned and looked out the window.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Sorry for the long wait, life is hard.**

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"Anything wrong?" I asked as we got off the cab, Dad payed and looked at John, we walked towards the police tape.

"Harry and me don't get along, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and are getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker."

"Spot on then, didn't expect to get everything right."

"And Harry's short for Harriet." Both Dad and I stopped in our tracks,

"Harry's your sister." I said, and turned to look at Dad.

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John asked, continuing on,

"Sister!" Dad spitted out furiously and through clenched teeth, it's always a tiny bit amusing when Dad get's something wrong.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

I jogged a little to catch up to John, leaving Dad to mourn over his mistake.

"There's always something." Dad said, exasperated, and we reached the police tape to be greeted by a truly delightful Sally Donovan.

"Hello, freak." She glanced pointedly at Dad, then at me, "And freak's daughter."

"Hello, Sally." I said, smiling an award winning smile, "We're here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?"

"We were invited." Dad said. Sally glanced at Dad, annoyed. Me and Dad continue each other's sentences easily, since we have such similar minds, and it annoys some less intellectual people *cough* Donovan *cough* to no end.

"Why?"

"I think he wants us to take a look." I said sarcastically.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you."

Dad ducked underneath the tape, I followed quickly behind,

"Always, Sally." Dad said, smiling, then took a deep breath through his nose, I smirked, "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't..." Failing to come up with something, she glanced at John, "Well, who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson." Dad turned to John, "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend."

"A colleague? How do you get a colleague other than your freak daughter?" She laughed, I rolled my eyes, seriously, does this woman have nothing to do but laugh at people much smarter than her? "What, did he follow you home?"

"Would it be better if I just waited and..."

"Absolutely not." I said, and lifted up the tape, John struggled to get under it, since I'm shorter than him, but he managed.

"Freak and daughter's here. Bringing them in." Sally talked into the radio.

We managed to get to the front door before we were barred by another obstacle, this time in the form of a hideous creature, otherwise known as Anderson.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." Dad said, and Anderson eyed him distastefully,

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear." I said, then took a deep breath, "Is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, like father like daughter. Don't pretend you worked that out, somebody told you that, you gossiping-"

"Don't you dare continue that sentence." Dad said furiously, his teeth clenched and glaring at Anderson.

"Something did tell me, Anderson." I said, after Anderson had recovered from Dad's eruption of anger, "Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men." I said, with a quirky smile and raising my eyebrows, I'm enjoying every single second of humiliating Anderson.

"Of course it's for men. I'm wearing it!"

"So is Sergeant Donovan." I said, Anderson looked at Sally in shock, and I sniffed again.

"Oh, it just vaporised... May we go in?"

"Now look, whatever you're trying to imply..." Anderson said and pointed at me threateningly,

"She's not implying anything and it's hardly polite to point your finger at a young woman, don't you think?" Dad said, and draped his arm over my shoulders.

"I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over." Dad said, and guided me towards the front door, John trailed behind us. Dad looked at me and winked,

"And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." I said smugly, and we entered the door. Anderson and Donovan stared after us in horror, John walked past and looked pointedly at her knees.

"You need to wear one of these." I said, and held the disgusting coverall towards John.

"Who's this." Lestrade asked, pulling on his own coverall,

"He's with me."

"But who is he?"

"I said he's with me."

"Sophia, I'm sorry, but I can't allow you to go up."

"And why is that?" I turned so I was fully facing Lestrade and placed my hands on my hips, cocking my head to the side.

"A crime scene is hardly the place for a young woman..." Lestrade said but trailed off at my glare.

"What is this, 1895?" I snarled, Lestrade has a principle that he works with, and unfortunately one of those principles is to treat a woman the same way a knight in a shiny armour would. "And you let me in last time."

"Well, this one is different, Sophia." Lestrade said in a coaxing tone, I hate it when he does that, I'm not a child.

"How so?"

"Well, last time it was a break in, this time there's an actual body."

"So?"

"It's not exactly a healthy image for such a young age."

"Oh please, Lestrade. I am the daughter of Sherlock Holmes, I've seen much worse than a dead body."

"But..." Lestrade looked close to wringing his hands, but instead he slipped on his latex gloves for something to do, "I'm already breaking every rule letting your father in, I can't let a teenage girl in a crime scene!"

"Sophia, I will fill you in later, OK?" Dad coaxed. I glared at him, but he only smirked. We both know that Lestrade was immovable, but I hate this sitting outside treatment.

I glared at Lestrade, who looked away, and I leaned against the doorway, pulled out my phone and ignored any further attempts at making conversations or apologies at three of them went up the stairs, and I slowly felt my rage subside inside me. Anderson smirked as he passed me on his way upstairs.

"I see, waiting for your father, aren't you?"

'No, I'm doing some research for him." I replied, smiling sweetly,

"What research?" Anderson asked.

"Oh, nothing much. Just the behaviour patterns of idiotic police officers and whatnot."

Anderson huffed angrily, and walked up the stairs.

A few minutes later, Dad came blundering down the stairs, I looked up and saw Lestrade and John leaning over the railings and looking at Dad.

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" Dad hollered as he leapt down the stairs three at a time. I straightened up and got ready to follow him out.

"Sherlock, there was no case!" Lestrade, in his usual exasperated voice, called out to Dad, leaning over the railings with John.

"But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them." Dad said, slowing down slightly but still going alarmingly fast.

"Right, yeah, thanks. And…?"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings- serial killings." Dad smiled and I could feel a grin spread over my face, A Serial Killer!

"We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade asked, seriously, is that a question you ask Dad after knowing him for so long?

"Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case." Dad called up to John and Lestrade, "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." John offered, he seemed even more confused than I am, and I have not a single clue what's going on.

"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour coordinates her lipstick and her shoes, she'd never left any hotel with her hair still looking…" Dad paused, "Oh! Oh!"

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"What is it, what?"

"Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake." Dad said, smiling cheerfully, the very image of improper behaviour at a crime scene.

"We can't just wait!"

"Oh, we're done waiting!" Dad said, and started running down the steps again. "Look at her, really look!" As if anyone except the Holmes can do that. "Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff, find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

"Of course, yeah. But what mistake?"

Dad dashed back into their view and yelled, "Pink!"

Then he took off, I ran after him.

"So, what's with the pink?"

"Jennifer Wilson, unhappily married, string of lovers, the sorts." Dad explained, we were walking down a dark alley, the brick walls covered with graffiti, and the mysterious stench of streets like this filled the air around us. "From Cardiff, dressed in appalling amounts of pink."

"Member of the media?"

"Yeah." Dad said, smiling, "And she scratched 'R-a-c-h-e' into the floorboards."

"German?" I offered, "Revenge?"

"Unlikely, Rachel."

"Oh." I said, and a silence fell between us, Dad was looking inside every nook and cranny we came across. He turned back as we came to a split that lead to two narrow alleys. "So, what are we looking for?"

"A pink suitcase. Small one."

"OK."

For the next forty minutes, we scourged the alleyways of the surrounding area of the crime scene, looking for a pink suitcase. We finally found it in a dumpster, and Dad made me carry it back so he can put his hands in his coat pockets and look cool.  
As soon as we arrived at the flat, Dad located the nicotine patched in my old Algebra textbook where Mrs. Hudson had hidden them and plopped down on the sofa to enter his mind palace.

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**WANTED: Beta Reader, I really need one because I'm very good at making typos and grammar mistakes.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or John, but I do own Sophia.**

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"Sophia, text the number on the table."

"Do it yourself."

I munched on the biscuit that Mrs. Hudson had brought up along with the lecture of how a teenage girl should be eating more often and how skinny I am. Dad signed dramatically, typed into his blackberry, and continued to explore his mind palace. An hour later, John climbed up the stairs, he seemed about to say something, but stopped when he heard the strangely erotic gasp of my father.

"What are you doing?"

"Nicotine patch, helps me think." Dad replied,

"Lestrade threatened to stop letting Dad help with his cases unless he quit."

"Quit what?"

"Something a doctor would not like to hear about." Sherlock said, then gestured towards the table with his head, "Can I borrow your phone?"

"Wait, what is it exactly that you were…addicted to?"

"Cigarettes, amongst other things." I said casually, kicking his slipper where he kept his secret stash, John looked at me alarmingly, and I raised my hands, "Don't worry, he was always sane enough to keep me from it, not that I would be keen to be hooked onto something, I'm much cleverer than him in the ways of keeping ones sanity and being rational. We balance each other out. Sort of."

"Yeah, lovely chit chat. Now, can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone? Sophia's got a phone, Mrs. Hudson's got a phone."

"Sophia won't do it, I tried shouting but Mrs. Hudson didn't hear."

"I was on the other side of town, you called me here to use my phone?" John said, beginning to get angry.

"There was no hurry." Dad said calmly. I snorted, Dad can never see what's wrong about his various requests.

"Here." John said, digging out his phone, his face a mask of exasperation, I was starting to think that it would become his permanent expression, poor man.

"So what's with the case?" He asked Dad, who ignored him, he then turned to me.

"Her case, the murderer's first mistake, taking her suitcase with him."

"So, he took her case. Wait, how do you know it'll be a he?"

"Balance of probability, my dear Watson." I smiled at him, "I'm a staunch supporter against sexism, but brutal murderers are usually male."

"OK…"

"John, I need you to text this number."

"You brought me here to send a text." John said angrily, I pity the man, at least he's not yelling profanities yet, he broke the record of the senile old man living in the cardboard box at the tube station.

"Text, yes. On my desk, there's a number." Dad said, and held out John's phone. John glowered at him, then at me.

"Couldn't you have done it, Sophia? Is it seriously necessary to call me over from across the town?"

"I am not my father's assistant."

"And I am?"

"Don't worry, he views everyone as his assistant."

John stomped over and snatched the phone, but instead of going to the table, he looked out of the window, nice self control, most people would have been either whimpering and texting at the same time or throwing the phone out of the window and stomping off the stairs by now.

"Just met a friend of yours." John said finally, I looked up while Dad frowned from the sofa,

"A friend?"

"An enemy."

"Oh, which one?" Dad asked casually.

"Arch-enemy, according to him." He turned towards me, he finally figured out that any backstory would have to come from me and not from Dad. "Do people have arch-enemies."

"Would you count my father as people?"

Dad spoke up now, "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity. We could've split the fee. Think it through next time."

"Who is he?" But Dad decided that he had answered enough meaningless questions today.

"The British government, otherwise known as-" I started, but Dad caught me off.

"And entirely not my problem now. On the desk, the number."

John glanced at Dad, sending a dagger, which glanced off his shield of not-caring-ness, and he picked up the paper from the luggage label.

"Jennifer Wilson. That was… Hang on, wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes. That's not important, just enter the number."

John shook his head but did what he was told, I greatly admire his self control.

"Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"Hang you done it?

"Ye… Hang on!"

My admiration for his self control had grown considerably.

"These words exactly, 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must've blacked out.'"

John looked at Dad, probably wondering when he blacked out or just confused.

"'Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.'"

"You blacked out?" John asked, confirming my hypothesis.

"What? No, no!" Dad clambered over the coffee table and joined me with in front of the open suitcase on a chair, "Type it and send it. Quickly."

"What's the address again?"

"22 Northumberland Street." I reminded him. He finished typing, and turned to look at what we were looking at.

"That's…that's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously." Dad said, rifling through the contents of the case. John continued to stare at him.

"Oh, perhaps I should mention, I didn't kill her."

"I never said you did."

"Why not? Given the text you just sent and the fact that I have her case, it's perfectly logical."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

I snorted, oh John, you have no idea.

"Now and then, yes." More like almost every time.

John limped over to the other armchair and dropped heavily into it.

"How did you get this?

"We looked through every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, took us less than half an hour." I said, "The

case had to be pink, and as I have mentioned before, the killer is most likely a male, a man would look pretty weird carrying a pink overnight suitcase."

"You got all that because you realised the case is pink?

"It had to be pink, obviously." I said, smiling. I exited the sitting room to go to my room to change out of my school uniform, rummaging through bins does not improve the state of your clothing. I chuckled at their faded conversation, practically everyone is an idiot indeed.  
I only did the first one-third of my homework, then every other one after that. A lot of teachers are not bothered to check more than half the questions, and most teachers are willing to cut me some slack for me due to the British Government and my general personality along with my…should I say, intelligence.

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"Sophia! We're going out!"

I rushed down the stairs, Dad and John are still talking,

"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly."

"What, you want me to come with you?"

Dad didn't reply,

"Come on, it'll be fun!" I said, smiling at him while shrugging on my coat,

"A dead woman and serial killer and you call it fun?"

"Problem?"

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**Hey guys, I've written up a new Sherlock one-shot, but is not letting me publish new stories, so yeah.**

**What do you think of this chapter? Reviews to me are like cigarettes to Sherlock!**


	4. AN

Hey guys,

I now have a new account, because this account does not let my publish new stories.

It's called Meilodiii. Here's a link: Meilodiii profile

I'm moving this story to my new account, so any new chapters will be there.

Thanks.


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